by Irene Carr
Chrissie had answered, ‘There’ll always be ships built on the river.’ That was an article of faith in the town.
And Jack smiled, happy with her.
The messenger came to the Railway Hotel in the early dusk of a day when snow had spread a clean white sheet over the town. He was a boy of eight or nine, stunted and dirty faced, in just a patched jacket and short trousers. He had kicked off the worst of the snow before he came in but some of it still clung to his worn boots. He took off his cap, a man’s and too big for him, and stopped just inside the door, his face and knees blue with cold.
Chrissie, checking on bookings at reception, saw him and called, ‘What do you want, son?’
‘Message for Miss Carter, miss.’
‘I’m Miss Carter. What is it?’ And she walked round the desk towards him.
‘It’s from the doctor. He’s at Millie Taylor’s. He says can you go round ’cause she’s asking for you.’ He added solemnly, ‘I think she’s very bad, miss.’
Chrissie took him to her office, gave him some coppers and told him, ‘The kitchen’s through that door.’ She pointed. ‘Go in and tell the cook: “Miss Carter says will you feed me, please.”’
‘Ooh! Thank you, miss.’ He scurried off and Chrissie telephoned to Ballantyne’s yard, spoke briefly and urgently to Jack then grabbed her coat and ran. She caught a taxi outside the station just across the road from the hotel. It set her down at the front door of the house where Millie had her two rooms. The snow there was trodden into slush. Where it lay on roofs and window ledges it was speckled black with soot. The shipyards were close and their hammers were a throbbing background to life.
Inside Chrissie pushed through the usual swarm of children and a huddle of anxious women neighbours. She climbed the stairs and met the doctor on the landing. It was Michael Dickinson again. He knew her as the owner and manager of the Railway Hotel. She recognised him because he had lunched there occasionally.
Chrissie said, ‘You sent for me.’
‘Yes. But Millie asked for you.’ He glanced behind him to ensure the door to the bedroom was closed and lowered his voice. ‘It isn’t going well and she knows that.’
Chrissie started to take off her coat. ‘Can I see her? And would you like me to help?’ She added, ‘I’ve done it before.’ With Bessie, many a time.
Dickinson seized on the offer. ‘Go on in. I’d be grateful for your help.’
There was a fire in the bedroom that normally would not be heated. The coals banked in the grate glowed, hissed and cast leaping shadows in the gloom of that winter afternoon. The room was furnished simply. A chest of drawers stood in the window and one straight-backed chair by the bed. The floor was covered with cheap, bare linoleum. Millie lay small in the double bed. She smiled pallidly as Chrissie entered and took her hand. Millie’s was cold and damp with sweat. She said, ‘I told the doctor that me and Jimmy didn’t have any family and you’d promised if anything happened to me—’
Chrissie soothed, ‘I did and I haven’t forgotten. But never mind that. You’re going to be fine.’ She talked to Millie, comforted her, worked and waited with Dickinson all through that afternoon and into the evening. Until the child was born – and at the end Millie cried out weakly, ‘Jimmy!’
Afterwards Chrissie saw to Millie and then Dickinson said, ‘I’ve signed the certificate and I’ll tell the undertaker.’
Chrissie put on her coat, took the child from his cot and wrapped him in a shawl that had belonged to the mother now still and silent. Dickinson gave her a lift in his car as far as the station. She took a taxi from there up to the house and paid off the driver at the gate. Then she walked up the drive with the child in her arms. There had been a fresh fall of snow in the last few minutes and her shoes crunched on its white crispness.
All the windows of the house were ablaze with light and she could hear the lilting music. She climbed the steps to the front door and it was opened as she reached it by a maid set there to watch for her. Chrissie walked straight through to the long room, where the table was set against the wall and the couples circled in the dance.
She paused in the entrance. This was the party to celebrate her birthday and her engagement. She was late but she had warned Jack that she might be, and told him why. She saw him standing by the fireplace, talking to old George Ballantyne and Sally Youill. At that same instant Jack saw her, had been looking for her every minute, and weaved his way through the dancers to wrap his arms around them both.
So Chrissie brought the child home.
